


Shattered by Time

by thelanding



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - His Last Vow, Canon Related, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Grieving John, Grieving Sherlock, Investigations, Love Confessions, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelanding/pseuds/thelanding
Summary: Sherlock is dead and John starts receiving notes from him every morning in the fireplace. Time arranged itself to bind the two of them once again.





	1. Decision

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic first came to me while I was sharing headcanons with some friends. I was obsessed with it since then, so I had to write it. It's related to Sherlock BBC canon until part of HLV. I won't go into s4 territory, though.  
> I hope you enjoy this journey with me and let me know your opinions in the comments section.  
> xoxo, Ana.

_Your skin like dawn_

_Mine like musk_

 

_One paints the beginning_

_of a certain end._

 

_The other, the end of a_

_sure beginning._

 

_(Passing Time, by Maya Angelou)_

 

* * *

 

 

Preface

 

Everything was covered with Sherlock, like everything ought to be, and John was well aware of that.

Sherlock was each corner of London and its buildings. Each unimportant cab searching the streets for some unimportant person. Each person who’d dare to speak words too fast but never fast enough. Each cheap drop of alcohol John would drown himself within night after night so he could get some sleep. Each tremble of his hands and each scream of his chest when he’d wake up abruptly before the sunrise, soaking wet from suffering the same nightmare once again.

Three months had passed since Sherlock’s death and John had realised, most forcibly, that he couldn’t escape his presence, even though he desperately tried to, even though he wanted anything but. That’s why he ended up in 221B one morning, having left his house the night prior because of a fight he had with Mary, the sixth that week, and walked the city sober. One hell of an achievement. Lying in his old dusty bed in the spare room of the flat for what looked like an eternity, he pondered his thoughts cautiously and made the decision to move back to Baker Street, at least for a while.

It was true that Mary was pregnant and it was unwise to leave her behind without supervision, but she was the one who offered to stay at Janine’s for a month or so. In her own words, that way John could “take a breath and process all their mess”. John remembered shouting at her for that, accusing her of being so selfish as to abandon him when he needed her the most.

Oh, the irony of that.

He had been complaining about others selfishness for years. It started with Harry and her lack of self-control to quit drinking, then passed on to Sherlock and, oh god, frankly everything! Sherlock was selfishness in its peak. Then Mary and her endless speeches about how John should resume his normal life, instead of isolating and being drunk 24/7.

But right at that moment, despite of what these people used to or still demanded of John, he knew there was someone being selfish above all of them. There was someone disturbing the lives of everyone he loved, at the point of making his own presence unbearable. He was that someone.

Without any vodka to facilitate the job, but fortunately exhausted by the earlier walk and tormented enough by the headache that’d never forsake him, John closed his eyes, ignored the bedroom around him and let his body find the way to sleep.

He dreamed of a selfish Sherlock making noise downstairs, spilling one of his experiments all over the kitchen table and then calling out for John’s help, so loud that Mrs. Hudson would certainly run to the flat to check what was happening.

 _You bastard._ _There’s no escape_ _from you_ , John thought.

Still asleep, a tiny smile crossed his lips while he tried to preserve the image of old times.

Even without sheets, John felt like he was covered. Of course he was. Everything was.

As dreams flowed through his mind, he wished the nightmares would never come to get him out of bed.

 

* * *

 


	2. Over The Fireplace

December – 2014

 

“Look, I know it’s too recent. I haven’t been in heaven myself, if you’d ask me. But the Holmes insist we should go.” 

“Well, then I insist you should, Greg. It’d be rude if everyone declined their invitation. And I’m sure Mycroft will be thrilled to help you with some cases.”

John was not in the mood for Lestrade today, or basically anyone. Or anything. He was sober for a week now, since he moved back to 221B, but that only left him more impatient with whoever tried to cheer him up or reintroduce him to the world as if it was an easy task.

“There’s one case I’m interested in solving, mate, and yours is the help I need for that.”

“Not happening.”

“Okay.” Lestrade sighed. “Fine, let’s not discuss that now.”

_ How about never? _ John wanted to answer, but remained quiet.

“Come on, John... It can’t cause you any harm to be surrounded by friends, you know? Besides, Mary told me you don’t have anything planned for Christmas.”

“And I’d prefer it to stay that way, Greg. I’m being honest with you.”

John opened the door, hoping Lestrade would just leave the flat and quit any attempts of conversation. “Please.”

People didn’t seem to understand how desperately John  _ wanted _ to be alone these days. The idea terrified him once, he remembered, but now he craved for it. 

Pain stuck in his throat as he realised the mere wish for loneliness was one more sign that he was becoming the exact person he was missing. 

_ Great. He’d be proud,  _ John thought.

“He’d be happy.” Lestrade’s words made him wonder for a second if the man was reading his mind.

“Sherlock would be happy if you spent Christmas with his family.”

“Hm, I don’t think so.” John gulped, the sound of the name suddenly too powerful, too damaging. “Festivities and family meetings are precisely the two things that would suck out happiness from Sherlock. He wouldn’t even attend it.”

Lestrade stood next to John, still trying to change his mind.

“If he  _ were _ to go, he’d be happy if you were there with him.” 

“Yeah.” John nodded. “Yeah, sure. But he’s not gonna be there, is he?”

With a defeated expression, Lestrade grabbed his coat. 

“Just consider it, okay? Call me if you need anything.” He motioned towards the door, but then froze his body to stare at John. 

“I’ve sent you an email, take a look when you’re up to it. We’re running some simulations to gather data about the sniper. We’ll have the results soon, maybe we can raise a profile even without Magnussen’s help, we’re hopef — ”

“Lestrade! Go. Away.””

John cut his speech with a commanding voice and gestured to the door, watching as Greg reluctantly turned around and actually made it down the stairs this time. 

With a deep breath, John steadied himself against the wall before getting back inside. Sitting in the kitchen chair, he looked at Sherlock’s room, door closed as if it had never been inhabited. 

The last Christmas they had together, Sherlock shut the door in John’s face. Since then, it seemed like there was always something making sure it’d remain sealed. Maybe death, considering how, year after year, she would always pay them a visit.  

 

* * *

 

 

John tried to avoid his friends and family for the entire holiday season. He successfully kept his phone off since Christmas Eve, which spared him the bother of Greg’s daily texts or any calls from Harry. 

The reason why he decided to just eliminate the possibilities of the latter was because he wasn’t sure what would hurt him the most, if Harry had called him and ended up judging his feelings as she often did, or if she hadn’t tried to contact him at all. He decided better not knowing which.

However, he did allow Mrs. Hudson and Mary in the flat. 

Mrs. Hudson showed up every morning to check if he was alive, fed and in need to talk.  At first, he would tell her there was no reason for such concern, but then he couldn’t deny the warmth of the memories her company evoked, memories of a time when John was not the person to be worried about. 

Embrace the past in order to understand his feelings and overcome grief was the whole point of moving back to 221B, so he just accepted when Mrs. Hudson sat in front of the telly with him, listening to her gossip for a couple of hours without putting much effort into it, but without getting irritated at her as well. He couldn’t bear that with anyone else, the stress wouldn’t let him, but she was family. 

Not  _ his _ family.  _ Theirs _ . His and Sherlock’s. 

John knew the future and the present were beginning to merge into an enormous ball of emptiness and uncertainty, and that terrified him to the core. His relationship with Mary was certainly included in that equation. 

He was supposed to be stronger for his wife and the baby they were waiting, and instead he was putting them aside, afraid he could never be the man this family deserved. 

_ This _ family. Not  _ his. _ Not really. 

A family he vowed to be faithful not a year before. A family Sherlock swore to protect with his own life, and failed. 

He belonged to this family once, when Mary was the only thing keeping him sane, because Sherlock wasn’t alive. She offered him the strength he couldn’t provide himself, and for that he was forever grateful. 

Then Sherlock came back from the dead, and John, unconsciously, lost any sense of belonging he had conceded to another person during Sherlock’s absence. 

He married Mary anyway, upon duty, too afraid to act on his heart. 

Now Sherlock was dead, once and for all, and no one was able to recover him strength or belonging. Maybe their child could restore that, John wished, not a path he had entirely prepared his mind for yet. 

No matter what happened, he’d be a good father, he promised himself. He’d be there for every moment. But he couldn’t force the happy life he once planned with Mary to exist anymore. That was gone.

When Mary visited him for Christmas, he considered asking her for a divorce right then. He didn’t, because she behaved in the most comprehensive manner about their situation and he didn’t want to make her life more of a mess that day. He could wait for the right time.

So they spent Christmas together. They didn’t talk about Sherlock. They didn’t fight. They didn’t exchange love sayings. 

Funny enough, despite Mary’s disapproval of John’s drinking habits, she bought them wine. They drank it. One week of progress wasted in a bottle. 

They slept together. Every kiss felt strange, misplaced. Every touch of skin tasted like cheating. They did it with their eyes closed. And then it was over. Mary went back to Janine’s, delaying their problems. John went back to, well, nothing, really. And everything.

  

* * *

 

 

New Year’s Day – 2015 

7am

 

John woke up to the smell of tea and toast invading his senses. It took him a couple of blinks before he came to the realisation of where he was.

_ “Dammit” _ , he mumbled.

“John, dear, I’ve brought you a cuppa.” Mrs. Hudson announced from the kitchen, and John knew she was directing her voice to the bedroom upstairs. John’s proper room.

He didn’t answer, predicting the look of pity the landlady would extend to him if she discovered he slept in Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He sat lazily in the corner of the bed, bringing together all his courage to get up, a headache from last night’s whiskey stealing the vigor from his body. 

“There’s some delicious toasts and apples too!” Mrs. Hudson sang enthusiastically.

Taking a deep breath, John ran to the bathroom and opened the sink to let the water fall noisily enough.

“Just a second, I’m in the bathroom.” 

It wasn’t a sophisticated excuse, but he hoped she’d buy it. 

While washing his face, he recounted in his mind the events that led him to Sherlock’s bed the night before.

 

He spent New Year’s Eve at a bar across the street from one of Bart’s sides. It was tolerable until the moment people started to approach him for chit-chatting. 

Then he just hailed a cab back home and watched from the living room as the fireworks outside declared the turn of the year. 

He was so drunk he kind of conjured the figure of Sherlock right in front of him. Sherlock, in a black suit, purple shirt and tidy curls. Sherlock, so silent and yet burning with thoughts. Sherlock, preparing the bow and arching his head to accommodate his violin. Ready to play a song, certainly the most beautiful piece of music John had ever listened. 

_ “Happy New Year, John.”  _ The image whispered to him. Just an echo, but still more real than reality itself. Without trying to hold it, John had allowed the tears to flood him, surrendered. He had let Sherlock invade his mind, missing every minute they had together and the ones they could never have. 

He couldn’t remember what happened after that, but the most probable scenario was that he engaged in observing Sherlock’s bedroom till sleep overcame him. 

 

His mind returned to the present when he wiped his face with a towel, calming his breathing, and opened the bathroom door to the corridor. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Good morning, John.” She replied, while John disposed the bottles of alcohol off the table to set a place for them. “I see you had an  _ agitated _ night.”

“You could say that. How was yours?”

“Well, not exactly what one would ask for, you know. But I did my best to enjoy myself.”

John went ahead to serve the tea and burned his fingers with the kettle.

“Ouch!” He exclaimed.

“Careful, dear.”

He leaned against the kitchen sink massaging his thumb and then grabbed the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had gently picked up for him, without actually reading it. He never read the news anymore.

“You went out with your girlfriends?” 

“Yes! Oh, John, I haven’t seen them in so long, it was like reliving the greatest of times! The girls used to dance with me, imagine that.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.” He joked. 

“I was worried about you, of course. I know I’ve said it before, dear, but if you ever need to talk — ”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson.” 

She rolled her eyes at him, as if to say  _ I do not believe you for a second.  _

“I mean, not  _ fine _ fine. But I’ll get there. I appreciate everything you’ve been doing, I really do. But you shouldn’t worry so much about me and forget about yourself.”

Mrs. Hudson had a tear rolling down her cheek. John approached the table to squeeze one of his hands with hers.

“I mean it, Hudders. If you ever need to talk.”

She answered him with a reassuring smile. He let go of her hand and walked to the living room, to leave the newspaper in the table amongst the others.

The room was a mess, but John had seen it in worse state before. Under his laptop there were a lot of unimportant notes he scribbled to pass the time, along with a couple of bills and a photograph. He hid the last inside a book he picked randomly from the closest shell, and opened the bills to check the dates, surprised to see they weren’t overdue. 

John hadn’t showed up at the clinic for four months, since it all happened. Mary did the favour of informing their colleagues about the situation, so he wouldn’t have to handle the talking and they wouldn’t find it out through the press. 

He still had some money saved from when he and Sherlock got rid of a bomb that was supposed to blow up the Parliament. That and Sherlock’s inheritance, substantial enough to ensure him a very comfortable life without the need of a job, except he refused to go near it. 

Sherlock left him his funds and all the stuff he kept in 221B, in addition to a house in Sussex that John had never heard him talk about. John wasn’t prepared to think about any of that. 

He considered passing everything on to Mycroft, but the man opposed to the idea, saying he neither needed those things nor wanted to contradict his brother’s will. It was the only proper time the two of them met for a conversation after Sherlock’s death, and it haven’t lasted for five minutes total.

“John Watson, the tea is getting cold, why are you standing there?” Mrs. Hudson reprehended him.

“Sorry, I’m coming.”

He collected the bills and turned to stab them in the fireplace. 

_ God, I look exactly like him _ , he thought.

 

That’s when he first saw it. 

In the fireplace, stabbed on top of the other documents.

Written in a tiny square yellow paper.

In Sherlock’s handwriting.

 

A note. 

 

_ “New case. Check your email. I’ll be waiting for you at the lab.  _

_ -SH” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First note from Sherlock is here. So, did you like the chapter? Please let me know in the comments, I'll be happy to hear about you.  
> You can find me on tumblr under the username thelanding  
> xoxo  
> \- Ana


	3. After The Same Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, babies, I'm sorry it took me so long to post this chapter. I've been through a lot these past weeks and it was difficult for me to find the time to review everything I had written and finish the chapter. I hope you like the results, let me know in the comments. 
> 
> PS: the song I quote here is Moon River, and you should check it out, it's absolutely beautiful.
> 
> \- Ana

Chapter Two – After The Same Rainbow

 

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes, dear?”

John’s hands were trembling silently, the bills held tight between his fingers, and his eyes fixed on the fireplace. “Would you come here, please?”

His breathing was so slow it could as well cease to happen at any second and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson approached him apprehensively.

“What is it your face looks so discolored all of a sudden? Are you feeling sick? I’m telling you, you really should stop with the exaggerated drinking, I understand you’re using it as a distraction but it’s not gonna make you any bett—”

“No, no, it’s not that. Just...”

John reached for the knife in front of him, releasing the note from it and stabbing the bills in its place. He looked up to Mrs. Hudson with a blank expression.

“This note, did you put it there?” He questioned, confused.

Her eyes traveled from John to the paper, struggling for a second to discern it and understand what the man was talking about.

“Oh!” She stepped forward and took the note in her hands, carefully. “This is Sherlock’s calligraphy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” He declared, almost inaudible.

“It’s every curve like him.” She returned him the paper, blinking away to hide watery eyes.

“So precise, and yet”—she barely finished the sentence, her voice not more than a whisper—“so _nebulous_.”

John held the note carefully. He could feel the words trespassing his skin like a tattoo while he caressed the dry ink with his fingers, lingering for a brief moment.

“Well, did you put it there?” He asked her again.

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. In fact, I haven’t seen Sherlock’s notes around the flat since...”

“Lestrade, then.”

“Sorry?”

  
“Must’ve been Lestrade. He’s tried everything these last months to persuade me to solve Sherlock’s case. Everytime I say no, he ignores me and tries again. Apparently, he abandoned boundaries.”

John was starting to feel a familiar burn in his chest, and not the usual alcohol one. It was a burn of anger.

Could Lestrade get to the point of mocking John’s grief, just to have him do the Yard’s job for them? No, John knew his friend would never thoughtfully do that.

But shouldn’t John’s refusals to get in board of the whole _‘let’s capture the assassin of your best friend’_ train be enough motives for Greg to leave him in peace? He wondered if Sherlock ever felt that same burn when people insisted for him to make things he didn’t want.

“Dear, that doesn’t make sense.” Mrs. Hudson woke John from his thoughts.

He paused his anger, reserving it somewhere for later, and trying to ease the clench of his fists and the look on his face before looking up.

“Greg haven’t come to the flat to see you for at least a week now, you wouldn’t have failed to notice if he’d left you that note before that, nor would I.”

“He does have a history of invading 221B for drugs bust, though.”

“And every time he did that, we were the ones who opened the door for him, have you forgotten? He doesn’t have a key.”

And there it was, she had a point. A very good point, indeed, which only made John confused, and he hated being confused. He’d exchange confusion for anger anytime. At least anger always had a target and targets were by far easier for a former soldier to understand, even a medical one.

He stared at the note in his hands, trying to recall when Sherlock had left it for him in the first place, what was its context or anything. He couldn’t even remember receiving it. Course he couldn’t.

So he just gave up trying, and occupied himself in folding the paper to make it fit inside the pocket of the aged jeans he was using since the night before. Or had he been using it nonstop for four entire months? He couldn’t even tell it. Course he couldn't.

Confusion bit John’s senses until it was turned into vacuum. Then vacuum turned itself into pain, and pain turned John’s stomach upside down like a rollercoaster.

“Look at you! Even your cheeks look indisposed! For Christ’s sake, those drinks are destroying you, John Watson, and I won’t be losing another friend in this life if there’s anything in my power I can do to avoid it!”

John watched quite peripherally as Mrs. Hudson invested her best motherly movements to make him sit at his chair, his insides struggling to adjust to a spinning flat around him that was indeed not a great indication of disposition.

By the time things stopped spiraling around him, two soft hands were cupping John’s cheeks to check for heat, and then off to the kitchen and back from it with a wet towel.

“You won’t ever listen when I ask you to stop concerning about me, will you, Hudders?” He let her put the towel against his temple, secretly thankful at any gods that ever existed for having allowed her to unpretentiously become part of his life, all those years ago.

“Hold this firmly against your head.”

John delivered her the sweetest _‘I am an army doctor, not a kid, and I can take good care of myself, ta’_ look in human history, but she wasn’t in the room long enough for him to delight on her expression, instead she vanished in the direction of the kitchen again.

“Take that look off your face. You’re having tea and a proper meal, _doctor_ , and I don’t care if you want it or not.”

“Okay.”

“Take that other look off your face, too.”

John half giggled and half mumbled at that. “Oi, you can’t even see my fac—”

“I’m your landlady, boy, not your housekeeper!” Her voice reverberated from the distance.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you’re so much more than that!”

He chuckled fondly, until the sound of Sherlock’s inebriating chuckles, the pleasing memory of his low-pitched voice, joined him.

 

_“Miss me, John?”_

_Yeah. I fucking miss you._

 

* * *

 

 

Still New Year’s Day

 

**(4:37 pm) Hey. I might go to the clinic later, want me to come over?**

 

(4:40 pm) Hi. Actually, I’m not home, sorry. How you doing? 

 

 **(4:41 pm)** **_Home_ ** **. You say that with no doubts now.**

 

(4:43 pm) I never had doubts about it, Mary. 

 

(4:43 pm) In a way, Baker Street will always be home to me. 

 

**(4:44 pm) To you?**

 

**(4:45 pm) Peculiar choice of words.**

 

**(5:10 pm) Anyway, I’m fine. Not that you’re really interested.**

 

(5:22 pm) We’re not gonna do this via text, for God’s sake. 

 

(5:22 pm) Or at all. Let’s not fight at all. 

 

-

 

(11:40 pm) Do you happen to know anything about a note that was stabbed on the fireplace this morning? 

 

 **(11:43 pm) Why would I know anything about what happens at** **_your_ ** **home?**

 

(11:43 pm) Forget it. 

 

* * *

 

John knew it didn’t make sense, but he called Greg anyhow, only to be told what he was already expecting. It was late night when he called, but his friend answered the phone quickly, not a spark of sleepiness in his voice. They kept the conversation quite peacefully.

The anger John had felt earlier that day had completely vanished after he went out for a walk at the surrounds of the Thames. He even turned his mobile on, which resulted in a not at all peaceful conversation with Mary.

Lestrade didn’t talk to him just as a detective inspector, though. He talked to him as a friend, above all. And noticing that, John was reassured of the truth his mind was tricking him not to see, that no matter how hard Greg insisted with him to help find Sherlock’s killer, his intentions weren’t to put the interests of the Yard before their loss.

In fact, Lestrade’s efforts looked more like a personal revenge, one he wanted John to participate with him.

When John asked him about the note, Greg genuinely didn’t know a thing about it. John explained it to him, and he suggested that maybe Mary could have stabbed the note to prove some point.

That’s why John decided to text her, who answered just as quickly - apparently, everyone was facing the same problems sleeping -, also seeming to have zero knowledge about any note.

 

Hours later, when John went to bed - his proper bed, this time - there wasn’t a single drop of alcohol in his stomach to disconnect him from reality, great part of it due to Mrs. Hudson confiscating all his bottles that morning.

He fell asleep to the sound of heavy rain bringing voice to Baker Street, and a vivid wind clattering the curtains in the bedroom.

There were no visions of Sherlock that night. There was only Sherlock’s belongings hanging around the flat, as always.

And his handwriting, safe hidden beneath John’s pillow.

 

* * *

   


The second note came more unexpected than the first.

The teacup shattered against the floor, strident but unnoticed.

John’s eyes weren’t fixated on the mess he’d have to clean soon. They were also not paying attention to his soaked trousers dropping hot tea to his shoes. Nor were they worried about the burned skin hurting beneath all of it.

John had a shocked face, lips parted in the shape of an O, eyebrows arched to its limits, and his eyes… well, his eyes were directed to the fireplace, to a very specific yellow paper stabbed on it.

It took John almost two minutes until he reminded to blink, and two more to move forward.

He released the paper hesitantly, trying to estimate the possibility that it was the same note he slept with last night. Obviously it couldn’t be, since he put that note back in his pockets first thing when we woke up.

The cursive writing danced to his eyes in familiarity. The message it carried wasn’t familiar, though. He never read that before.

Actually, Sherlock never had the habit of leaving notes to John, not that he remembered. He would occasionally leave them for Mrs. Hudson, but never John. When they lived together, a long long time ago, before Moriarty, before the fall, before Mary, before any of these problems - _delete ‘Mary’ from the ‘problems’ folder_ , he adverted himself while thinking - he and Sherlock were so close to each other that they didn’t need to communicate like that.

The most distant they’d get was when John worked late at the clinic, and even then they’d just, you know, text one another. Like people normally do. Through their phones.

Or have Mycroft kidnap one of them to pass a message, you know. Like people normally do.

It was only when Hurricane Moriarty convinced Sherlock to jump from Bart’s that it all changed. Two years without any means of communication between the two friends, and a progressive loss of intimacy after that.

When Sherlock came back, there was Mary and the wedding preparations, and John not living in 221B anymore, which meant they just couldn’t talk as frequently. And every time they did, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t about cases as much as before. They’d talk about cakes, and types of paper, and colour of dresses, and cakes again. Nothing they really wanted to talk about, but all they got.

Therefore, the idea of Sherlock Holmes ever leaving these notes for John was simply inconceivable for his mind. And yet, the calligraphy could never be so perfectly copied.

John had read every single journal Sherlock left at the flat. They weren't common journals, of course, but scientific ones. Anyway, he could recognise Sherlock’s question mark in a sentence with his eyes half closed.

He hadn’t the faintest idea of how anyone could’ve stabbed another note in the fireplace, especially now that he felt more than sure Greg wasn’t involved in this, and nobody except Mrs. Hudson could’ve entered the flat that night or morning, and she had no reason to place it there either.

There was no logic, so John decided to do what any sensible man would in his situation.

Answer it.

 

* * *

 

 

2 January 2015

 

_“I know you have an appointment at the tailor later. Can’t be there to help you, a case arrived. It’s a 9, but I expect to solve it in a couple of hours. Tell Mary I’ll be back in time to decide seat arrangements. I emailed her the list, if necessary. Text me if you need advice on your suit._

_-SH”_

 

“Don’t know who you are or why you’re mocking my pain like that. But you won’t get me around whatever it is you want, stop being a prat.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

3 January 2015

 

_“Writing poems again, Watson? To be fair, maybe some inspiration is what’s missing you to finally choose between those fabrics. We need your approval, the bridesmaids won’t wait forever. It’s not difficult, you can do it._

_-SH”_

 

“Whatever. Keep doing it. Being a prat. When I find out who you are, you’ll face the consequences. Until then, I’ll just ignore you.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

4 January 2015

 

_“Are you... using the remains of cocaine Gavin confiscated from me? Or is that too much alcohol again?_

_-SH”_

 

* * *

 

6 January 2015

 

_“We have dance class tonight. Polish your shoes properly._

_-SH”_

 

* * *

 

 

9 January 2015

 

_“Off to Leeds with Mary for the final gown fitting. Keep rehearsing, we’ll be back tomorrow._

_-SH”_

 

* * *

 

 

10 January 2015

 

“Okay, I know what’s your plan.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

11 January 2015

 

“I won’t fall for it.” 

 

* * *

 

 

12 January 2015

 

 _“Since I questioned you in person about what plan is that you think I have and you didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, more oblivious than usual, I’m guessing either you’re playing something or John isn’t you at all—sorry,_ **_you_ ** _are not John at all, would be the right way to put it. Which would be most interesting, but I know John’s writing these answers, so probably the first and possibly dull one. What is it, then? Your play?_

_-SH”_

 

* * *

 

 

13 January 2015

 

“Oh, I’m not John at all, is it? _You’_ re not Sherlock Holmes. And although I’m not playing, you’re planning to continue this mad reverse game - of what, reliving the past? - until I’m fragile enough to do something for you. Could be anything, depending on who you are. Some crazy psychopath who hates Sherlock or, who knows, a member of The Yard. Not Mycroft, not even him would be that ridiculous. Anyway, I won’t buy it. Somehow you have access to this flat. And somehow I’ll find you. Remember, the longer you play, the higher you fall.” 

 

* * *

 

 

14 January 2015

 

_“Fascinating. Oh, you tell me about falling. Seems impossible, but as I always say, eliminate that and we end up finding the truth in improbable corners. Past, you said. What’s the date for you?_

-SH”

 

“For me? Oh, what’s your move now, you’re from the past? Make me laugh.” 

 

“Okay, the game is on, then. Let’s see how the fucking far you think you can get with it. 14 January 2015. Cameron is the prime minister. You know, the actual Sherlock would find that information absolutely essential. For absolutely nothing.” 

 

* * *

 

 

17 January 2015

 

_“Hm, inconclusive. I mean, you sure sound like John and I sure am in 2014, but that’s not enough data. I asked present John about the prime minister, not that I care, and he says it’s this same Cameron woman, so nothing to confirm if you’re predicting the future or just stating what you know. Tell me more._

_-SH”_

 

“Studied your character well, I see. Cameron Woman, typical Sherlock. _You_ want data? Oh, dear, _I_ want data. 2014, eh? What song are we dancing to? Not me and Mary, me and Sherlock. In rehearsals. No one knows that, so answer me. It’s the last thing I intend to read of you before throwing each note I see in here directly in the fire without glancing at it twice.” 

 

* * *

 

 

19 January 2015

 

_“My dear future Watson,_

_Yes, I’ve come to terms with the possibility of you being John. I mean, nerves like that, it’s convincing. Also, me and present John have just solved the case of an elephant. Amazing, incredibly challenging. I’m not supposed to reveal information about it, but if you are who you say you are, you already know. After today’s events, I don’t think I’d be surprised with time travel, though I do suspect this is all happening inside some drugged fantasy of mine. Not unprecedented. What I can say, Watson, is if you know how to read the answer you want, then I think we’re after the same rainbow's end._

_These are turning into letters, aren’t they?_

_-SH”_

 

* * *

 

 

6 January 2014

 

John arrived at 221B panting, his clothes soaking wet while he tried to shake the drops of rain from his hair.

“Traffic was hell and the damn taxi was costing me a fortune, so I ran three blocks to get here.” He explained.

Sherlock looked from John’s eyes to his shoes, his brows strained in question.

“Shit”—John exclaimed once he acknowledged Sherlock’s line of sight—“I ruined it, didn’t I?”

“I’d warn you they weren’t waterproof, but the possibility of you running in the rain using your newly bought wedding shoes haven’t really crossed my mind.”

“I swear this wedding is bankrupting me, Sherlock. These shoes alone cost me a month of work, and I’m so occupied here and there, with wine tasting, and cake choosing, and dress fabrics approval, and God knows what else, that I’m barely twice a week at the clinic. Mary wants me to go look after chairs with her tomorrow. I mean, CHAIRS! Couldn’t we look at—”

“John. It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I’m being a prat, it’s just—”

“I mean it, it’s fine. Mycroft said he’s got some money from the Parliament case. He was planning to transfer it half to half to our accounts, but I’m not really interested—”

“I’m not accepting money from you or your brother.”

“Take it as an apology. We earned that money and I, well, I put you into a lot of pressure that day—”

“Sherlock—”

“Besides, you won’t attend your own wedding wearing this mess of shoes, John, not on my watch. And you don’t have much more money to buy another pair and pay for those chairs tomorrow, or the bridesmaids dresses that I’m so happy you ordered the lilac fabrics for, and there’s countless debts still to come. Not to say you promised Mary stupid sex holidays and you won’t hear the end of it if—”

“Okay! Okay. Thank you.” He cut Sherlock, not exactly keen on having a conversation about his and Mary’s honeymoon with him.

Not when ceremony and party preps were the only topic he and his best friend had been discussing endlessly since they made peace. He couldn’t imagine himself taking a jump further in that abysm.

“Is there a towel I can use?  If there’s any point in dancing at all today. I’m really bad at this, Sherlock, I was thinking if there’s any way I could skip—”

“In my bedroom. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.” He replied quickly enough to silence John’s complaints.

John sighed and turned to head to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“You’re not, by the way.” The detective said.

“What?” John replied, stopping to look behind.

“You’re not being a prat. I thought you were finding _me_ a prat, though. Ignoring me and stuff.”

“What are you talking—I mean, not that you’re any less of a prat everyday of your life.” He laughed, but the sound of it dissipated when he realised Sherlock looked genuinely worried.

“Hey, just kidding. Relax, Sherlock. You’re helping me a lot with everything, I don’t know how I’d do without you. Thank you, mate. And for God’s sake, if it’s the past you’re talking about, we’ve made it through that already. You don’t have to keep apologising, you just did it again two minutes ago. It’s all fine. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. I just, hm. I want to see you happy.”

“And I appreciate it.” John said, knowing that deep down, all was not fine.

 

-

 

“Was 221C really our best option?”

“It’s closer to home than anywhere else, it’s not so well lit at night, but we have enough light at this time of day, and no one is gonna interrupt us here.”

John extended him an incredulous look.

“Well, it’s possible Mrs. Hudson breaks in with tea as usual, but I told her I needed the space to make some experiments, so she may as well decide to avoid the image of dead bodies in her carpet.”

“After Moriarty, dead bodies in the carpet are precisely the image I associate with this place, to be honest.”

“They were only shoes, John. Not my fault if you romanticized it for you blog.”

“Shoes that belonged to a child that, thanks to Moriarty, was turned into a dead body.”

“The story of your shoes, if you don’t stop talking.”

“Speaking of which, should I take them off?”

“Certainly wet leather hurting your feet won’t make you enjoy dancing any more than you hate it.”

“Hey, I don’t hate it.” John worked on his shoes and socks, and placed them at the corner of the room. “I’m just not good with it. But I love watching other people dance.”

“You love it?” Sherlock’s voice played full of sarcasm while he worked on his own clothes, barefoot and rolling up his sleeves.

“And the prat is back.” John joked.

“Okay, John, of the many things you’re constantly learning from me, I dare to say this is gonna be one of the most valuable.”

“Oh, my, are you gonna teach me how to have a massive ego as yours?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Sherlock went to the middle of the room, gesturing for John to follow him. They stood face to face.

“You’re gonna have to perform a waltz, as you, such a lover of dance, probably know all about.”

“We haven’t began but something’s telling me I’ll want to curse you every word you say. Please don’t let me be right.”

“You’re never right, Watson.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“There we go.” Sherlock took a step closer.

“I’m gonna be the lead for now, so you can observe what I’m doing and incorporate that to yourself. When you’re ready, we’ll switch.”

He raised his left arm to reach John’s right one, and clasped John’s hand in his. His right arm circled John’s body so he could place his hand in John’s back, cupping his shoulder blade.

“Position your left hand at my shoulder.”

John obeyed the command, his fingertips running slightly against the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Yes, like that. We should keep our arms this high during the whole dance. Not higher than our shoulders, nor lower.”

“Okay.” John’s answer came out broken, and he cursed himself internally for enjoying this whole arrangement way too much.

While Sherlock explained to him how they should draw a square in the floor with their movement, part of his mind was inebriated by the sound of Sherlock’s voice and how his lips seemed to be already dancing around each word it formed.

 _I’ll want to curse you every word you say_ , he confirmed silently.

The first move of their feet happened only because Sherlock led it, John’s body completely unaware of what it was supposed to do.

They completed the first two counts of 1, 2, 3 without messing up, but then John’s insecurity woke up to say hello, making him step on Sherlock’s right toes.

The icy sensation of it, combined with the awareness of all the places Sherlock was touching his skin now, made a shiver run through him. He tried to hide it.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt without shoes.” Sherlock broke contact suddenly, stepping back and walking to the place he’d left his coat.

“Now that I showed you the basics, we should practice it with music. Mary haven’t decided your song yet, so I took the liberty of choosing one for us. Not the official, of course.” He said, picking up his phone from one of his pockets.

John knew the story wasn’t true. Occasionally, he’d arrive at Baker Street and hear Sherlock composing upstairs, always repeated pieces of the same song. Mary had confessed him not long ago that she asked Sherlock to compose something for their dance.

 _That way he can distract himself with something he truly loves, John, he’s been working so hard to help us_ , she said at the time.

John never allowed himself to envision long enough how it’d hurt him to do that, if he was in Sherlock's place.

“What’s the song?” He asked.

Sherlock’s reply came by putting the song to play. His phone mike wasn’t loud enough for the room, but he found a way to balance it in his shirt’s pocket so the sound would remain close to them.

He came back to John, positioning their hands, John’s fingers trembling timidly against his.

Before they started, he leaned to have better access to John’s ears.

“Forget I’m here. Don’t overthink what we have to do.” He whispered. “Just do it, and listen to the song. Let it speak to you.”

Their feet initiated the motion out of nowhere, as if they were naturally born to move that way. As if they were naturally born to move that way together.

The first line of the song invaded John’s senses softly as he closed his eyes.

 

**_Moon river, wider than a mile_ **

**_I’m crossing you in style some day_ **

 

“Moon River, it’s called.” Sherlock answered the question from before. “Louis Armstrong sings this version, but Audrey Hepburn sang the original in the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

“And how is that relevant information to the great Sherlock Holmes, when so many things aren’t?”

“Good music is always relevant, John.”

John laughed at him, eyes still closed.

 

**_Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker_ **

**_Wherever you are going, I’m going your way_ **

 

The verses echoed between them while their steps flowed easily across the room.

 

**_Two drifters off to see the world_ **

**_There’s such a lot of world to see_ **

 

Sherlock’s voice reverberated in John’s mind as if it was part of the melody.

_Forget I’m here._

_Listen to the song._

_Let it speak to you._

 

The final verse came slowly, words so perfectly combined John could swear they were carefully chosen for him.

 

**_We’re after the same rainbow’s end_ **

**_Waiting ‘round the bend_ **

**_My huckleberry friend_ **

**_Moon river_ **

**_and me._ **

 

He opened his eyes when the sound of the last trumpet died, ending the song.

And when he looked into Sherlock’s eyes, he knew.

Of course the words were carefully chosen.

Sherlock chose them, with the same amount of dedication he chose the minimum details of John’s wedding, without ever complaining about it.

The difference was he hadn’t chose this song for John and Mary.

He chose it for them. For their dance.

He chose it to speak what they couldn’t. What they wouldn’t.

 

“I have no idea how we got here.” John said, and with that he wasn’t just commenting about the fact that they were at the farthest corner of the room. He was speaking the truth about everything that happened in their lives since they met again months ago, and he hoped Sherlock would understand what he meant.

 

Sherlock was the first to step away, though, looking embarrassed as he practically ran to his coat, grabbing his things decidedly without saying a word or looking at John.

He reached for a bunch of keys and then threw them at John, who captured it in instinct.

 

“You were great, John. See you tomorrow. Don’t worry about shoes until we can buy you new ones, then you’ll have enough time to worry about polishing again. Oh, and close the doors, you can keep the keys.”

 

One second later he was gone, leaving a mute John behind.

 

* * *

 

19 January 2015

 

_“Okay, future Watson._

_Yes, I’ve come to terms with the possibility of you being John. I mean, nerves like that, it’s convincing. Also, me and present John have just solved the case of an elephant. Amazing, incredibly challenging. I’m not supposed to reveal information about it, but if you are who you say you are, you already know. After today’s events, I don’t think I’d be surprised with time travel, though I do suspect this is all happening inside some drugged fantasy of mine. Not unprecedented. What I can say, Watson, is that if you know how to read the answer you want, then I think we’re after the same rainbow's end._

_These are turning into letters, aren’t they?_

_-SH”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

20 January 2015

 

“I have no idea how we got here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 


	4. A Message From Another Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I KNOW. I feel like the worst person ever for taking so long to post here. I've been struggling with life and depression (and life with depression), but I swear to you I'd never abandon this story. I love writing it and I love the feedback I get from you, it makes me so happy. I'm taking time to write every day these last months, so you can rest assured that I will get back with more and more chapters for you. I have this fic planned since day one, so I hope you enjoy the journey. Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I appreciate your comments immensely! Stay well and with me, xoxo
> 
> \- Ana

Chapter Three – A Message from Another Time

 

Since the day that second note appeared at the fireplace, John became paranoid with the flat’s security. At first, he’d just stay up at night to watch the doors of 221B, pointlessly. 

It didn’t take him long to realise, though, that the “ _ ridiculous prank” _ , as he called it, continued to happen anyway. So he changed all the locks of the building without explaining his reasons to Mrs. Hudson, which only encouraged her to question his emotional state - as if she didn’t do enough of that already. 

Within two weeks of that madness, he considered contacting Mycroft to check if the man wasn’t playing one of his cruel power games on him, but decided the situation was too absurd even for the standards of the manipulative eldest Holmes. 

Then one day, John decided to ask the person behind those notes for such personal information that  _ no one _ besides him and Sherlock could ever answer, confident that he’d found the best way to end that nightmare. 

To call it a  _ nightmare _ may give the impression that John despised the idea of Sherlock being alive somewhere, but it wasn’t like he had never fed on the possibility. After all, Sherlock  _ had _ done that before - faked his own death, ran away and lied to John for two bloody years. 

But with all the pain that came with it, John still preferred to believe that Sherlock kept his promise of never hurting him like that again, never hiding from John whichever fucked up circumstances that could possibly arise to threaten their lives. 

Besides, John was  _ there _ when Sherlock’s chest bled out of control in Magnussen’s floor - and how he wished that his first instinct back then had been to run after whoever fired that shot and kill them. Instead, he stayed and made pressure to Sherlock’s wound, trying and failing to keep his friend conscious.

He was there when Mycroft and his men arrived to pick them up, and at the hospital for the following days when Sherlock remained in coma. 

He was there in the morning when Sherlock’s heart rate increased all of a sudden and the doctors came rushing to the room, to declare his death moments later. 

He embraced Sherlock, felt the delicacy of his hair under his tears, cursed and screamed until his throat hurt, unwilling to let anyone take his body out of his sight. 

He was  _ there _ when they put Sherlock in a coffin, dressed in his Belstaff, and buried him. And this time, so was Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, alongside all those people whose love Sherlock unintentionaly captivated throughout his life. 

Since then, every time John dreamed about Sherlock, it usually became a nightmare. He stopped nurturing his hopes of seeing Sherlock again  _ from fear _ of suffering any harder. 

Or at least  _ he thought he had stopped _ , until the day he read  _ it _ . 

The impossible answer.

 

“ _ (...) I think we’re after the same rainbow's end.”  _

 

You know in movies, when a character realises something humanly impossible is happening to them, and proceed to either scream for help or ignore the situation entirely because they don’t trust their eyes? 

When John read that note, his reaction was anything like those. 

What he did was grab a pen and a piece of paper, write a quick sentence on it, and immediately stab it at the fireplace.

Hours flied as John, sitting in his chair, faced the note and waited. His mind was empty. His stomach hurt. His eyes didn’t give up the watch. 

Time seemed to stretch even slower after night finally came upon 221B, gradually consuming the noises outside Baker Street. 

All around John, nothing seemed to happen. But when the first rays of sunshine started to pierce through the windows of the flat, something did. 

Something happened.

 

Just a blink and one would’ve missed it. There, in the surface of the fireplace, a tremulous light was reflected for a split second. 

If John hadn’t been staring at that same spot for pretty much the last 24 hours, or hadn’t memorised every angle, cut and fold marks on the note he had previously stabbed there, he wouldn’t have noticed the subtle change of papers that happened after the flicker. 

John stood up and ran to the fireplace, almost collapsing against it as he jumped forward to reach for the note. He didn’t care to look around to search for a reasonable explanation for the fact that a new piece of paper had just materialised from absolute zero right in front of his eyes. 

It crossed his mind that, whenever Sherlock had to deal with an odd or improbable situation, like this one, he would gather all the evidence he could before touching and interfering with the ‘crime scene’ - although Lestrade never understood that correctly, because for Sherlock it only ever  _ actually _ took a couple of seconds to gather the information he needed - and  _ then _ he was all about touching. 

John was different, though. Of course his rationality and strategic thinking skills had crazily increased from his time in the army and with Sherlock, but in his core he was still the kind of man that was more inclined to emotions, whenever he was surprised in a personal affair. 

So, when he read that note, he didn’t ponder the unlikelihood of its existence, like any sensible person in his place would. No. In fact, in that moment, John couldn’t care less about the impossibility of it all. He just let hope consume him, and maybe he was crazy for doing so, knowing how hurtful the results could be and have been before.    


But in some quiet, inexplicable way, his heart just  _ knew _ . 

Everything else ceased to matter. All he could care about was the message Sherlock left for him. 

 

A message from another time.

 

* * *

 

 

20 January 2014

 

“I have no idea how we got here.”

 

Sherlock fidgeted with the ring box inside his coat pocket. 

John was standing just a few feet away, handling some papers with the cashier while trying to maintain his composure in the middle of a quiet argument with Mary. 

Sherlock never quite grasped why, after all these years, John still believed that whispering about him when he was in the same room was a subtle thing to do. If it were anyone else in his place, Sherlock would certainly call them out on that, preferably throwing deductions at them in revenge. But since everything was different with John, Sherlock had to admit it was fun to pretend he never noticed his friend’s private conversations. 

The decision came from Mary. 

Usually, from what Sherlock researched, the best man should only receive the wedding rings the week before the wedding. From there on, he would be responsible for keeping the rings safe, ready to hand them over when the couple came to exchange rings at the ceremony. That is, of course, if they didn’t have a ring bearer, which neither John or Mary did, lacking nieces or nephews for the task.

But Mary wanted Sherlock to have the rings  _ now _ ,  _ four months _ before the wedding, under the excuse that the most observant man in the world would take much better care of it than the exhausted bride-and-groom-to-be.

The arguing started when John disagreed, muttering that the most observant man in the world wasn’t even able to take care of himself, let alone of such mundane an object, to which she replied it would be good for Sherlock to have that responsibility - as if he weren’t already organising an entire wedding for them, it crossed his mind to say but he never dared. He would do everything to see John happy.

When Mary shoved the box within Sherlock’s coat, he realised that he didn’t mind, really, caring for their rings so long. In fact, having them around would be a great reminder of what was bound to happen soon. That and the wedding prep checklist on his nightstand.

 

But today, of all days, Sherlock didn’t worry much about the wedding. Today, the touch of fancy velvet against skin in his right pocket, instead of overwhelming, was merely a distraction from the touch of rough paper cutting fingers in his left. 

Sherlock, too, had no idea how things got here.

Two months ago, he had finally finished dismantling Moriarty’s network. Mycroft had set him free from torture - as if anyone could ever regain freedom after that -, and Sherlock blindly believed that coming back to London would be enough to lead him back to the normally abnormal life he lived before, beside John, where he belonged. 

And then, at once, normal and abnormal slipped through his fingers. 

The day John proposed to Mary, Sherlock knew. He had lost not only his best friend and the glorious adventures they once shared, but everything they could have been together. 

He could have stepped away from John after that night, but he didn’t. Two years without John’s presence had taught Sherlock to hold on to any scrap of him he were offered. He decided to embrace every single minute prior to the wedding as a chance to apologise and say goodbye to the only life he ever cherished  and the only man he ever loved , hoping that in doing so, the reality would be easier to accept. 

 

He thought about those notes and how they appeared almost every morning on the fireplace, as if in the future John still lived in 221B. 

Not in his wildest dreams Sherlock could imagine Mary settling in Baker Street after the wedding, especially not at Mrs. Hudson’s building. 

Mary despised the ‘lack of style of the flat’, in words she herself whispered to John one random afternoon, convinced that Sherlock couldn’t listen from the kitchen. 

Sherlock swallowed, admonishing himself for wondering whether he and John would be close in the future or not instead of reasoning about the fact that time travel had just proved itself a real thing this morning.

 

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” A familiar timbre called him from the background. 

 

But he couldn’t prevent it, thinking about John. Soon-to-be-married John was trying really hard to make it seem like solving cases with Sherlock would keep happening as a married man, but Sherlock knew different. He worried…

 

“Look, you don’t have to do this just to please Mary.” The familiar voice resonated louder, a bit more clear this time.

 

Married John wouldn’t show his face around Baker Street much. He wouldn’t have the time or ability to leave daily notes at 221B’s fireplace, living in the opposite side of London. Married John wouldn’t leave Mary alone for one night, let alone days on end. Married John would just  _ be gone  _ from Sherlock’s life. 

_ Married _ John would never-

Wait… 

Was that… 

Oh. My. God! 

Did that mean…? 

 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice took him out of his thoughts and back to the present.

“DIVORCE!” Sherlock cried out, the deduction escaping his mouth unwittingly and drawing everyone’s attention in the jewelry store to him. 

 

Of course! 

That would explain everything -  _ except the time travel bit _ . 

A year from now, John and Mary would get a divorce. 

That’s why  _ Future _ John is back in 221B, and was able to write him all those notes. Not because he’s trying to balance a normal life with Mary and solving cases with Sherlock, nor because he’s worried that Sherlock won’t eat if he doesn’t bring him milk every morning. 

That would also explain why Future John was so angry the first times they communicated! Because he thought someone was mocking him  _ about the divorce _ . 

It was so obvious! 

John probably just couldn’t afford to live alone with what he received from the clinic, and needed to resort to plan B- 

For a second, something inside Sherlock’s chest reprimanded him for even considering that John’s second plan had anything to do with the _ two of them  _ living together one more time.

“Sorry, what?” Present John asked, doing that face he always does when he knows Sherlock just deduced something, but he can’t grasp what or why. 

Sherlock couldn't say anything. John would never forgive him for intruding in his romantic life once again, not even for the sake of preventing him from future pain. 

“- Divorce, John, I mean… I mean, it’s a superstition.”

“Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?”

“If the bride and groom lose the wedding rings, it’s a presage for divorce, they say. You don’t… You don’t want that. I’ll keep them safe for you.”

John looked at him cautiously, with scrutinising eyes. 

“Okay. If you prefer so.”

They didn’t discuss further.

 

When Sherlock got home, he sank into his mind palace, searching for any information he read throughout life about time travel and the theoretical aspects of it, only to find that he had deleted the entire subject from his mind. 

After all, who would ever have predicted such a nonsense to become useful in real life, at some point?

And yet, here he was, accepting the most improbable concept as a tangible reality - literally, his fingers patting delicately the paper in his hands. 

Sherlock knew there was no rush to stab a response right away. As he scientifically tested these last days, the messages were exchanged at precisely 6am, every time. 

So he opened his laptop and spent the rest of the day researching, waiting and, deep down, hoping for something he was far from entirely understanding. 

 

* * *

 

20 January 2015

 

“I have no idea how we got here.”

 

* * *

 

 

21 January 2015

 

_ “Seventeen steps upstairs, John.  _

_ Is the wood in your bedroom floor still squeaky? _

_ -SH” _

 

* * *

 

22 January 2015

 

“OF COURSE Sherlock Holmes knows I’m back in the flat, I should have expected it. I haven’t fixed the floor yet, but you know I got used to it. 

Tell me, how are you?”

 

* * *

 

 

23 January 2015

 

_ “I really thought your first question would be how this, the whole time travel thing, is happening - which, by the way, I assure you I am midway to figuring out.  _

_ But since you asked, how are YOU, John? I assume divorce is not an easy process, especially so soon. _

_ -SH” _

 

* * *

 

 

24 January 2015

 

_ “I’m sorry, John, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.  _

_ Forgive me. _

_ -SH” _

 

* * *

  
  


25 January 2015

 

“It’s okay. You’re right, things are… different. Now more than ever, I guess, but I’m fine. 

So, have you been researching? About this _thing_.”

 

* * *

 

26 January 2015

 

_ “I have.  _

_ Read a lot of nonsense first, but then I was able to run some experiments, who proved very helpful to my theory. _

_ -SH” _

 

* * *

 

 

27 January 2015

 

“And what is it, your theory?”

 

* * *

 

28 January 2015

 

_ “Apparently, a strong unknown force - whose origins I’m still investigating -, acted upon the fireplace in a paradoxical behaviour somewhere in the future, which caused time’s structure to completely shatter in a single spot and then quickly rearrange into a somewhat failed but surprisingly comprehensive cyclic pattern. _

_ -SH” _

 

* * *

 

29 January 2015

 

“Oh, okay."

 

"Could you repeat that in english?”

 

* * *

 

30 January 2015

 

_ “It’s a portal in time, John.  _

_ Someone or something opened it in the future, and it’s going to remain open until that same day comes for us. _

_ -SH” _

 

* * *

 

31 January 2015

 

“Wow. I mean, it's surreal!  


What should we do about it?”

 

* * *

 

01 February 2015

 

_ “That depends. What do you want to do about it? _

_ -SH” _

 

* * *

 

 

02 February 2015

 

“I say… We enjoy every second?”

 

* * *

 

 

03 February 2015

 

_ “Yes, John. I say that too. _

_ -SH” _

 

  
  


 


	5. Every Lie is an Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, guys! It's 5:40am here and I just finished writing this chapter, so I'm gonna jump right into bed now and sleep for as long as I can, but I can't wait to come back here tomorrow and find out what you guys think about this chapter! So please tell me if you liked it, what were your favourite parts and what are your theories for what's going to happen next. Xoxo  
> Ana
> 
> PS: Mary is bittersweetly written in this chapter, but it's no spoiler to say that she was the one who shot Sherlock in Magnussen's office, so we should always remember to keep an eye on her.

Chapter Four – Every Lie is an Agreement

 

24 January 2015

 

John woke up in the middle of the night to his phone buzzing insistently. It showed 59 missed calls from Mary. 

He stumbled out of bed in the dark, ringing her number back, without answer.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on his bedroom’s door. 

“John, dear, Mary’s in the way to the hospital, we must go now! Your daughter is coming, oh, it’s so exciting!”

Heart jumping out of his chest in panic, John managed to put a jumper and a pair of worn trousers over his pyjamas before opening the door and running downstairs beside Mrs. Hudson, who fetched him his jacket. 

He waited impatiently in the pavement for her to lock the door. Besides a fancy Aston Martin mysteriously parked in front of 221B, which John didn’t even have the mind to pay attention to right now, there were no cars in sight in Baker Street. 

Phone in his hands, he started to ring Lestrade to ask him for a ride, but kept an eye on the street just in case a cab showed up in the corner.

Mrs. Hudson crossed the space in front of him hurriedly, and five seconds later, he heard a horn hoot loud next to him.

“Come on! Get inside.” She said from the Aston’s driver seat.

John’s face was one of complete shock.

“Is- is this yours?” He asked her, after taking the passenger seat.

“I told you, John-” Mrs. Hudson answered, stepping on the accelerator with the force of a jew breaking the glass on a wedding. “-my husband was a drug dealer, one of the greatest. And I used to be a  _ very good _ dancer.” 

The first thought that crossed John's mind was whether they were going to make to the hospital alive, at the speed she was driving. The second thought was that he should definitely ask Mrs. Hudson later if she would let him drive this beauty sometime.

* * *

 

“Oh, God, to think I survived to see this day!” Mrs. Hudson said when she picked up Rosie for the first time, and then suddenly opened her mouth in horror when she realised the double meaning in the words. “Sorry, John, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay.” He looked at his daughter in Mrs. Hudson’s arms and held back a tear, letting a soft smile colour his face instead. 

Would Sherlock have hold her like that too? Would he cry, looking at John’s eyes miniaturised in this beautiful little girl’s face? 

Nah, in all the time John lived with Sherlock, he had never seen the man show affection towards babies. He would probably be so scared to get near Rosie for the first couple of months that he would just avoid her entirely. 

In the worst case, maybe Sherlock would  _ never _ have the interest to hold her, even when she got older. John swallowed at the thought.

“Wherever he is right now” Mrs. Hudson said, “I’m sure he’s so proud of you three.” She looked at John and then Mary, approaching the hospital bed to squeeze her hands, and holding Rosie carefully with the other arm. She did it so gracefully that one would think she was a mother herself. 

Mary returned the squeeze, but John could tell from the crinkle in her eyes that she wasn’t glad. Which was confirmed soon after.

“Martha, would you mind leaving me and John alone for a while? We need to talk, privately.” She asked.

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Hudson returned Rosie to John’s arms and left the room, saying she was gonna get them something to eat. 

Rosie’s feet stretched under the blanket, and John’s heart melted at the sight. How could love happen this way? 

He got nine months to prepare his mind for this - in a totally different way than Mary, of course, who had to deal with her entire body and world changing, and not just prepare her psychological to  _ accept  _ a new person into their lives - and yet he had been so full of self-doubt every day prior to this moment. But now, just holding his daughter close, and looking into her eyes, John felt like he had known her, loved her, and been her father for decades.

“Seriously, John?” Mary asked.

“What?” He answered, distracted. 

“I called her because you wouldn’t answer your damn phone, but you need to talk some sense into the woman. Our daughter was just born, the last thing I want to hear is what some dead person would think about it!” She finished.

_ Some dead person??? You realise this is Sherlock you’re talking about? Show him the least of respect! _ John wanted to say, but didn’t. He would do the impossible to avoid conflict today.

“How are you feeling?” He decided to ask.

“Well, everything hurts, I haven’t seen my husband since Christmas AND he wasn’t by my side when I gave birth. How do you think I feel?”

“I’m sorry.” He sat by her side on the bed. “I truly am.” He took a second to inhale “I know I haven’t been there for you in a long time, and I- I hate myself for it.”

She looked at him incredulously.

“Thank you, Mary, for giving me this present. Our daughter.” He smiled, a joy in his heart that he hadn’t experienced for months. “I regret a lot of things in life, but not  _ her _ , never.”

They stood in silence for a minute or so, before Mary spoke.

“You won’t come back home, will you?” She asked, and John could notice the fragility in her voice. A hint of fear, possibly.

“Hey… We don’t have to do this now.” He tried to reassure her.

“Yes, we have!” She exploded. “We have, John, because you have made your mind and I deserve to know!”

He waited a few seconds before answering. 

Breathed. 

Considered.

“I  _ am _ home.” He said. “There.” 

A single tear rolled over Mary’s cheek. She cleaned it with the back of her hand, and then swallowed.

She signaled for John to give her Rosie, who had fallen asleep. She embraced her carefully. 

“I knew I lost you long ago," she whispered, talking to John but looking at their daughter, "but I really thought this child would be able to save our family.” 

“No child should carry that weight upon their shoulders.” He whispered back.

“No father should abandon his kid, either!”  

“I won’t! Mary, look at me…” He raised his hands to cup her face. 

Her skin was pale and she had sweaty hair, like any woman who had just been through labour, and John hated himself again for having this conversation now, of all times. 

He reminded himself of a time when he loved Mary, in many ways.  When she saved him from grief and death. 

This woman had done more for him than any other person. 

( _ Not more than Sherlock, not even close _ , his mind pointed out.) 

But she gave John a reason to live when he needed it, and now she did it again, through Rosie. 

“I promise you, Mary. I will  _ always _ be Rosie's father, and I will  _ never _ leave her. I’m here for everything she needs, and I’m here for you too. Just…” 

He joined their foreheads together. 

“Please don’t ask me to insist on something we both know is only gonna make us suffer. Let our story end with a good memory, eh? Like this one. This is a good memory. Let’s not grow reasons  to hate each other. Okay?”

She kissed his lips, quietly. 

He kissed her back.

An agreement.

 

* * *

 

 

The following days, John wanted to tell Sherlock everything. About Mary and the divorce, about Rosie and her perfection, about the way he missed Sherlock and just wanted him to be alive. But he couldn’t.

Even though Sherlock deduced correctly that John and Mary would get a divorce in the future, he got the time and conclusions all wrong. He didn’t know he would die, and he wouldn’t be aware of Mary’s pregnancy until the wedding day. 

John had watched enough _Doctor Who_ episodes in his life to know that messing with the past and informing Sherlock of things he shouldn’t find out yet wouldn’t result in anything good. 

He also had a notion of something he  _ wanted _ to do, soon. For now, he needed to research  _ how _ he could do it and  _ what _ were the consequences of doing it.

 

So while these topics were out of table to discuss, he did the next greater thing, and decided to talk to Sherlock about everything else.

They exchanged notes every morning. Sometimes, the notes would be short, just a question. 

Most of the times, they would be so long John could as well call them letters. 

One sunday night, John stabbed three notes at the fireplace, to test if Sherlock would receive them the next morning. Tuesday, he got an answer to all three of them. 

They had the basic 'rules' of it figured out by now. 

The fireplace would deliver their messages every 24 hours, at exactly 6am, which meant they would read each other’s answers with approximately 48 hours of delay. 

Sherlock was the first to suggest that they should both send daily notes to each other anyway, even if the conversation got a little awkward every now and then due to the fact that the notes were “ _ behind schedule” _ , as he put it. John couldn’t think of a more accurate or funny term for that, considering that the whole concept of their communication was that they were simultaneously  _ a year behind and ahead _ of schedule.

They talked about the cases Sherlock was keeping in his inbox, too busy with the wedding preparations to solve. John convinced him to investigate some together, nothing too elaborate, just a couple of 'below 6'. He didn’t think his opinion would be of much use to Sherlock, really, especially through letters. But it felt so good to create these memories with him, that he didn't mind.

They often talked about the old times and savoured some shared stories, but what they really created a habit of was confessing things about their individual pasts, things they weren’t brave enough to confide to anyone before. 

Such as the time Sherlock told John about this institution he had been living in before he moved to 221B and met him. About how Mycroft believed that the best way to protect his brother from another overdose was to lock him in a recovery clinic and isolate him from the rest of the world, to their parents’ despair and Sherlock’s madness. 

Or, for instance, the time John wrote about his father’s violent behaviour towards Harry and his mother, and how deeply he regreted having waited so long to stand up against him, years after his mother was gone. And, contrastingly, the shame he felt to this day for having seen his father beg for his and Harry’s forgiveness in his deathbed, and still not being capable to forgive him like Harry did, when she was the one who suffered the most in his hands.

They never did this before, John and Sherlock, not to this extent. 

The talking. 

The confiding. 

John wasn’t good at letting people decipher his heart. 

He was worse at trying to decipher Sherlock’s.

But it was comforting, this new arrangement of theirs. 

Distracting, even. 

It felt as if they could stay this happy forever.  As if John could risk everything, just this once.  As if he could hold onto this irrational chance, and make the universe right again.  Because  _this, right now,_  was acceptable. 

A life without Sherlock was not.

* * *

 

 

10 March 2015

 

_ Dear John,  _

_ I was taken by an alluring idea yesterday, which will require me many days of work and experiments. Thus, if you remember me sulking and ignoring you around this time last year, you should now know that this was the reason behind it.  _

_ Present You and Mary shouldn’t have any complications regarding the wedding preparation, since I got the next three weeks’ tasks ready for you in advance. Let me know if you did have complications, though. I wouldn’t doubt it, coming from you.  _

_ If my speculations prove right, I may have just made a huge breakthrough in science and history. The only part I can tell you for now is that it has to do with how this portal handles matter and energy. Who knows, perhaps you’ll soon be able to send me a cup of tea through time.  _

_ Do you do that, in the future? Make us tea? I’m not sure where mine is coming from these days, it just sort of happens, but I can swear it doesn’t taste the same as yours, so it’s probably Mrs. Hudson’s. You’re barely around Baker Street anymore, anyway. _

_ I miss your tea. It always tasted better. _

_ -SH _

* * *

 

11 March 2015

You nerd. Can't wait to read more about your discoveries, I bet they're gonna be brilliant. You might be proud to know that I'm conducting some studies myself too. Surely they're not as fancy or complicated as yours, but I've been doing a lot of research. Maybe we can help each other out?

About your question, yes. I do make us tea. I try to take it to you in bed every morning, so I guess y ou probably know where it comes from by now.  But it's you, so it's entirely possible that you're just pretending to be awake and aware of my presence. Y ou always smile, though. God, Sherlock, you should smile more often. It's the sweetest thing in the world.

* * *

 

 

13 March 2015

 

_John,_

_I need to ask this._ _Please don't hate me if I got it wrong. In fact, I know I probably have, so just ignore this note if that's the case. Please, John, don't stop talking to me, okay?_ _Are you saying that we are... That we have, in the future..._

_Are we together?_

* * *

 

14 March 2015

 

Yes, Sherlock. 

Yes, we are.

 

 

 

An agreement. And a lie.


End file.
